


For Everyone to See

by spunker13



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Public Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spunker13/pseuds/spunker13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson unknowingly moves into the flat across the street from 221B- the home of the Great Sherlock Holmes- where he is drawn into the chaos that is Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Eyes Across the Street

**Author's Note:**

> Only my second piece, and of course, I'm always a bit nervous to put something out there, but here goes, yeah?  
> Lots of unestablished Johnlock, considering that they hadn't really officially met yet. Just one chapter out of a few.... ENJOY

John slid his hand up the wall, gripping his cane in the other, as he made his way up the steps to his new flat. With his new position at St. Bart’s hospital and his army pension, he figured he would be able to afford a slightly bigger and more comfortable flat than the one he previously resided in. When he finally unlocked the door, he stepped in with held breath.

  
He was pleased to see light furnishings in the sitting room. Closing the door with his good leg, he stepped further in and smiled at the warmly decorated kitchen. He peered down the short hallway that led to the single bedroom. On the opposite side of the sitting room, the large expanse of windows were drawn open, letting the sounds of London pour in. The thin navy drapes were pulled back and tied. John neared them.

  
Across the street, a young man swooped in, heavy Belstaff coat swirling about his slender figure. He whipped off his blue scarf and tossed it haphazardly over the couch followed by his coat. The man was dressed sharply in a well-tailored suit and light blue button down. Over by the window, he sat down at a desk and lifted crime scene photographs. Several moments had passed before he jumped up again and began pacing his living space, spouting sentences into the empty air.  
John didn’t realize how intensely he was staring until a cabbie honked outside. He snapped out of his trance and moved back into his living room, unaware of how far he had been leaning out his window to observe the odd stranger. He would go back to his previous residence to gather the rest of his clothing. Not much, of course, but there was still some jumpers left to retrieve, and how could his landlord say “no” to a wounded ex-army doctor?

  
Unfortunately, John didn’t have any food in his new flat, so as he ordered takeaway, his eyes drifted out the window once more.

  
“Yeah, I’ll have the curry,” he sighed, watching as the pale man across the street stretched in the center of his living room. He wore a dark red dressing gown. John noted that it too had a dramatic flair. The man must be a bit of a drama queen, John thought to himself. His food order was on its way, but rather than get the money from his wallet, he continued to observe the curly haired man as he leapt onto the couch and threw himself on his back. He pressed his hands in mock prayer and pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips.

  
The man stayed like that for over twenty minutes and then some when John returned from downstairs to receive his delivery. The doctor ate his dinner in silence at the kitchen island. It was nearly half past eleven when he decided to wash up and undress, deciding to slide his gun into the bedside table in his room. He slipped into his green and white striped robe and reached over the window sill to close the windows. The man across from him continued to lay there.

  
Surely he’s alive, John thought again. He closed the panes, hands hovering over the drapes, considering whether or not he should go over there and make sure the lad wasn’t comatose. Right when his decision was made to march over there, the dark haired oddball jerked up into a sitting position and an older woman came in, tray in hand with biscuits and tea. They spoke briefly before he stood and took both the cup and the plate with a roll of his eyes. John thought that maybe he lived with his mother, but the way he frowned around her dictated otherwise. The man put down the biscuits by his laptop and was moving to press the cup against his lips when he glanced up toward John, bright eyes piercing right through the air and the glass. Startled, John let go of the drapes and let them shield him from that sharp glare.

  
He took a few minutes to calm himself. He hadn’t realized that someone’s gaze could get his heart racing like that. Of course, he was caught peeping, so there was good reason behind those icy eyes. John shook his head and turned to his new bedroom. Inside, there was a reasonably good sized bed, much bigger than his old one, and a small green chair resided in the corner. He draped his robe over the chair and lay back onto the unfamiliar mattress. It was a bit too soft, but comfortable enough for his leg. After hours of staring up into the plain cream colored ceiling, he decided that his bed option for sleep was to have himself a wank. There was no better way to break in your new place.  
It took a John a bit longer than normal to get himself hard. He thought about previous conquests and naked women, but the eyes of that stranger would flash into his mind and make him bit his lower lip in frustration. How could those eyes have such a lasting effect on him? They were just eyes, silly. But John knew in his sex mottled brain that they were different. He didn’t exactly understand why or how, but he just knew. Another ten minutes had passed, and the blond haired man was finally able to push out that glacial stare from his head. Just a few more tugs had him easing himself through his orgasm with a soft grunt. Not one of his stronger ones, but one that will definitely get sleep going.

His eyes were already feeling heavy when he reached for a tissue on his nightstand and wiped himself clean. John’s dreamless sleep melded into one of gunshots and disturbingly bright blue eyes.


	2. Loose Limbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is having an odd effect on John, and he doesn't understand why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, y'all for joining me again for a new chapter. Many kisses to the lot of ya :)

John woke with a start, heart pounding out his chest and sweat rolling down the back of his neck into his pillow. He gripped his shoulder as the crack of the rifle echoed in his ears. He remained still, breathing deeply as to calm himself. The last thing he needed was to have a panic attack right before he went to his first day of work. Just a few more breaths and he stood to take a quick shower. The water soothed him as it trailed over his short hair and muscled back. He dressed in a white button down, jeans and gun in the waist, and his brown shoes, which he despised because they were uncomfortable after a few hours but he wore them nonetheless. He grabbed his cane and jacket and left down the street.

The walk to St. Bart’s was fairly quick and easy. He hadn’t even realized that he was already there until he heard himself speak.

“Doctor John H. Watson,” he recited. The nurse smiled at him sweetly and typed away on her computer.

“Welcome to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, Doctor Watson. You’re expected in the morgue downstairs. Just follow the signs.”

John frowned to himself. “Why the morgue?”

“Ms. Hooper will be giving you a sort of,” the nurse hesitated. “Orientation.” John nodded, thanked her, and left downstairs. He cursed to himself as he wobbled down the steps.

When he reached the doors labeled Morgue, he took a deep breath, straightened his back, and walked through. A young woman stood with her coffee in hand. She turned to smile at John.

“I certainly hope you’re Doctor Watson,” she laughed softly. John limped over and shook her delicate hand.

“Call me John.”

“Molly.”

“I was told that you were going to be the one to lead me through things?” She sipped her coffee, peering through the watch window.

“I’m quite sure you know your way around a hospital, but you’re correct.” John followed her gaze.

Down in the morgue, the icy eyed stranger took a riding crop to a dead man. He was panting hard by the end of the thwacking and rolled his shoulders. His hair was a mess of dark curls when he turned to face the window, jotting down notes in a little black notebook. He looked up and met John’s stare instead of Molly’s. John was finally able to get a good look at him. The man was tall and svelte with sharp cheekbones and perfectly defined heart-shaped lips. He had reasonably dark circles under his eyes, stark against his pale skin. John decided that his features were hawk-like, and wondered if the man was as predatory.

John looked back at Molly. “Who is he?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” she sighed, lips pulling up in an admiring smile. “He’s just brilliant.” John eyed her.

She shook her head a little and beamed at the army doctor. “Shall I show you around then?”

Hours later, John finally finished his “orientation.” Molly had said that there was really nothing for him to do today until his paperwork was fully processed. John left her with a little wave.

Outside, John hailed a cabbie and headed to his old flat. The landlord smiled sadly at him as he unlocked the door. Everyone pitied him when they found out why he was in London. He always got the same responses.

“Thank you for serving our country.”

“If there is anything you need,”

“I know of a great support group,”

Personally, John was tired of hearing it all, but what else could he expect? He carried his past with him in the form of a cane and wore it on his shoulders. He had gathered the rest of his jumpers in a box and a few books before making his way back outside to the cab.

Back in his new flat, he put away his stuff and pulled back the drapes. The stranger- er, Sherlock- wasn’t there. He sighed disappointedly, and then stopped himself. Why the hell should he be disappointed? He doesn’t even know the man. John stared into his kitchen. He really should go to the grocery, but his leg was bothering him more today, and he didn’t really want to make the effort. He settled for takeaway again. In the back of his mind, he dreaded being the regular at the restaurant, but he did need dinner.

Thirty minutes later, John was once again eating alone, pushing around his food in the Styrofoam plate. He didn’t notice that he was staring off in the direction of the flat across the street until Sherlock came in a flurry once again. He whipped off his coat and scarf and settled in the middle of the room. He stared at the wall behind the couch for several moments before throwing his hands up and turning toward the window. John jerked his body away, ready to jump and hide in case Sherlock caught him staring once more, but the other man just bent down and picked up a violin. He watched as the other closed his eyes and began to play. John wasn’t sure what he was watching exactly- a performance or a man so invested in what was between his fingers, he seemed entranced. John focused on the man’s swaying head, oblivious to the world around him. The outside world seemed to blur. He was standing in the flat across the street, watching this strange human go from a whirring hurricane to slow oceanic waves all with the touch of a violin. John found himself biting his lower lip and growing hard in his jeans as he watched those fingers, long and artistic, float across the neck of the violin. His toes curled in his socks. He couldn’t tolerate it anymore. He hurried into his room, threw off his clothing and tugged himself hard on the bed. He fucked his own fist, imagining that it was Sherlock’s deft fingers around his cock rather than his trigger ones. He came with a silent yelp, arching his back off the bed.

In his sleepy haze, John sighed to himself and wondered what the hell he was doing. Wanking to the thought of a violinist’s hands? He did enjoy that lasting effect it had on his body. He felt devoid of pain, nothing but loose limbs. _Pull it together, Watson._

 _Pull it together_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to pump out chapters as quickly as possible, but bear with me :)


	3. Crack Shots and Soft Touches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get to learn a bit more about each other.

John yawned hard, trying not to let the woman in front of him see. She kept spouting off different symptoms, none of them really indicating an exact disease and just mostly sounding like someone who just jumped off of a medical website. John nodded and opened her file. Everything seemed normal except for the beautifully handwritten note taped to the inside of the manila folder.

_Patient is a hypochondriac with anxiety issues. Refer to therapist for anxiety._

John considered the note. Maybe a previous doctor had already figured it out but didn’t want to tell her to head to therapy. Of course, John would be the one to.

“So what do you think, Doctor?” John snapped back out of his head to look at her.

“Well, it sounds like you have several problems that can be traced back to anxiety. I suggest that you see a therapist about that. I’m sure that everything will clear up after seeing one.” The woman frowned a bit, but finally nodded.

John stood at the front desk, waiting to make sure all his paperwork was done. It was the end of his shift, and he had enough time to make it to the grocery before it got too late. The double doors down the hall were pushed open and Sherlock strode through, shoving his hands in his pockets, coat flaring behind him. John picked up his jaw from the floor when the man stood next to him.

“Be sure Ms. Hooper checks on the last row of corpses within the hour. I don’t need her botching one of my experiments.” The way he spoke was both elegant and clipped in baritone.

“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” the nurse sighed. He stepped away from the counter and nodded toward John.

“Doctor Watson” was all he said before swooping out through the front doors. The way he said John’s name made his breathing hitch. He hoped his discomfort wasn’t completely obvious.

When John stepped outside, he wasn’t expecting to see Sherlock standing by the curb. And he was definitely not expecting to see a NSY squad car and officers pointing at the younger man.

“I hope you’re taking care of yourself then, Sherlock,” one of the officers said.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock growled with a dramatic twist of the wrist. “I don’t require the entirety of the Yard to watch me, George.”

“Greg,” the officer hissed.

“Yes, well, let’s remember the last time you said you could care for yourself.” Sherlock lowered his head and glowered at Greg through his eyelashes.

“Not now.” He huffed through gritted teeth. Greg frowned at him before finally noticing John’s shuffling form as he tried to escape the awkwardness of this situation.

Greg slapped a smile on his face. “Oi, sorry about all this, sir. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.” John raised his hand and smiled halfheartedly.

“Doctor John Watson, and that’s quite alright.” Before anything else could be said, John quickly took off toward the grocery.

In between the aisles, John carried a basket full of tea, milk, sugar, and jam. He debated on getting anything else, but really, how much would he be actually cooking? He proceeded to grab a loaf of bread and pay. The cab dropped him off at his flat and as he stumbled out, he noticed a figure swaying in the opposite flat. He glanced over at Sherlock as he eased the bow across the strings before he disappeared behind the front door.

Upstairs, he put away everything and decided to strip into his sleepwear and robe sooner than the night called for. He slid his gun back in its drawer. Today was his first day fully “assimilated” back into civilian life- flat, job, and grocery runs. It was a bit exhausting, and quite honestly, rather boring.

John took a seat in the decently plush chair against the wall in the living room with the newspaper. It faced the window and gave him a pretty view of Sherlock Holmes, the curt violinist from across the way. He raised the paper up to cover his face, but no matter how much he wanted to read, or rather, pretend to read, he couldn’t manage to tear his eyes away from Sherlock. The man looked brilliant in the way he stood with his shoulders pinned back in that wonderfully tailored suit of his, dark curls surrounding and softening those sharp angles on his face.

In the moments that John was admiring the man, Sherlock took notice, as he always does. He faced the window once more, finishing his performance with a flourish. He made eye contact with John, the sturdy army doctor from the hospital. The older man quickly lifted his newspaper back up. John’s heart raced under his tattered old army shirt. His mouth was full of cotton. He gave himself another breath before he peeked over the paper again. Sherlock had put down his violin but was still holding his bow against his shoulder, tongue wetting his lower lip. A jolt ran down John’s spine. That familiar warmth was welling up in his gut. Sherlock removed his jacket, draped it over one of the chairs, and rolled up his sleeves, never letting his eyes leave the doctor. He didn’t know what had come into him, but John put down the paper and walked over to the window. Sherlock’s perfect lips curled up into a smile as he unbuttoned his shirt. Heat welled up in John’s face and in his groin. He could always appreciate a beautiful human, and Sherlock, oddly enough, was one of them. He removed his striped robe, letting it fall heavily onto the floor.

At this point, John wasn’t ashamed by the fact that this total stranger could see the tenting in his pajama bottoms. Sherlock splayed a large hand to his stomach and slid it underneath his pants, the other hand making quick work of his belt. John cupped himself through his pants, reveling in the pressure. Sherlock tugged himself out his black trousers, long even strokes on his own cock. John imagined those delicate fingers leaving soft touches on his hard-on. The doctor gripped himself tight. A deep moan escaped his lips. It would have been a sight to see had anyone looked up from the sidewalk: two men tugging on themselves in front of one another from different sides of the street. John started to stroke with increased fervor, using his own pre-come as lube. Sherlock threw his head back a little and let his curls fall away from his sweat dampened skin. John came first, spilling himself into his own fist, and breathed heavily as he watched Sherlock follow suit. His brain was too foggy to question what the hell he had just done. Sherlock held John’s gaze once more, lifted his hand, and sucked on his fingers down to the knuckle.

John’s heart stuttered. He just had to have that mouth.

Sherlock smirked crookedly before breaking the spell and walking away. John stood there, gripping the little table next to him. He hadn’t even realized how badly his knees shook. Ten minutes had passed without Sherlock’s return. John decided to finally go wash up.

When he returned from the bathroom, he peeked over at the other flat to see Sherlock drinking tea by the kitchen sink in his dressing gown. _What I would do to get a chance to wrap my arms around him_ , John thought to himself. John settled with a warm cuppa in the chair once more. He let out a pleased sigh as he watched Sherlock settle onto the couch in his prayer pose again.

That was a special man over there. John still couldn’t explain; he could just feel their connection to one another.


	4. His Face Fell on Black Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After not seeing Sherlock for a couple days, John gets a sick feeling.

It had been almost two days since John had seen Sherlock, even at his flat. He was starting to feel stir crazy without the mysterious man. He was lucky enough today to have the day off so he could watch the other flat. John practically vibrated with excitement at the thought of seeing the other, but to no avail.

He had woken in the early hours of the morning to the flash of desert suns and bloodied guns, and as his heart pounded against his chest, he thought that maybe seeing Sherlock today would ease him. People always disappointed him in the end.

John sat in his room cleaning his gun in only his sleepwear and robe. He thumbed the dark pistol, still learning the different textures on it. Oh, how many times he held it to himself, wondering if he would ever get himself out of the rut his life had fallen into. He never could pull the trigger though. Not because he was scared of dying. _No, not at all_. He never pulled it because there was always a nagging in the back of his head of something coming. He wasn’t sure if it was just him trying to be hopeful, but this past week put him in lighter spirits. The stern frown on his face was gone when he rose from bed to bathe despite his nightmares. He hated to think it, but his life seemed to have turned after meeting Sherlock.

_That’s purely coincidental, John, really. Don’t be daft._

John left his gun lying on the cleaning rag on his bed as he went to bathe and change. Finally into a pair of dark jeans and his beige jumper, he reloaded his gun and slid it into the back of his pants. John limped into the kitchen, glanced over into the other flat to still find it empty, and proceeded to make himself tea.

He held the cup to his lips when something struck him in the gut. A sharp pain ran its way up to his sternum. He looked down and thought he might see a bullet wound or something of the kind, but he saw nothing. Nausea rolled through him and he couldn’t catch his breath. He still doesn’t know what made him look over into Sherlock’s flat, but he doesn’t regret it.

He stood up, wrapped in his own arms, and immediately, he knew.

He knew that there was something wrong with that flat.

He knew that Sherlock was in trouble.

John sprinted out his flat and across the street. He knocked on the door labeled 221B hurriedly. The knocker crooked to the right. The woman he saw before opened the door.

“Good afternoon,” she cheered. “Can I help you with something?”

“Hi, um,” he panted. “I’m, uh, here to see Sherlock Holmes.”

“Are you a friend of his,” she questioned with suspicious and narrowed eyes.

“Colleagues of some sort. I work at St. Bart’s.” John tried to push through, gut wrenching again, but the woman held strong.

“I don’t think he’s in,”

“Please,” John pleaded, eyebrows furrowed softly. “I just need to make sure he’s well.” The woman sighed and allowed him in. John raced up the steps and burst through the flat he knew almost as well as his.

Papers and books were strewn across the floor. A skull rested upside down on the couch. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but John just had to make sure. He climbed a narrow set of stairs into an empty bedroom. Mounds of folders occupied the bed. Back downstairs, he looked past the kitchen and noticed a door slightly ajar. Kitten heels _clicked_ behind him and clucked her tongue at the sight of the flat.

“What’s in there?”

The woman put her hands on her hips. “That’s Sherlock’s room. You’re not supposed to step in there.” John swallowed hard and withdrew his gun. The woman gasped.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“A couple days ago, but I’m his landlady, not his housekeeper. I don’t keep my thumb on the boy.” John turned away from the landlady and held his gun firmly as he approached the door. He sucked in a quick breath and pushed through, aiming it at the open room.

“Oh God,” he groaned, waves of sickness rolling through him.

Sherlock lay on the bed dressed in only an old grey shirt and dark blue bottoms, foam and vomit dribbling from his mouth as his body convulsed. His silk dressing gown pooled around him.

“Call emergency!” The landlady burst in and covered her mouth, feet confused as to what to do. “Call emergency,” he repeated and replaced his gun.

Sherlock was cold when John gripped his shoulders to turn him to his side so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit. Sherlock was hardly aware of John’s presence, only feeling the air warm around him. The brunet was hovering off the ground. Occasionally, he felt his body shift, but he never touched earth again. He imagined that this is what it would feel like to lay next to that doctor from St. Bart’s, settled in the warmth of his muscular and firm grasp. Normally, Sherlock felt no attraction to anyone- all of them so plainly idiotic it insulted him- but there was something else to this ex-army doctor. He was just as readily deduced as anyone else was, but he found John Watson to be refreshing and surprising.

He was a man without motive.

There was a warm glow resting on the side of his face. Sherlock pressed into it.

John rubbed his thumb across those brilliant cheekbones. Sherlock’s convulsions slowed to soft tremors, but John needed that ambulance to be faster. He ran his other hand down Sherlock’s side as he curled in on himself.

All week he wanted to touch the man.

Not like this though.

Stomps sounded outside before two men came in, emergency kits in hand. They rushed to put him on a stretcher. John blurted out his vitals to them.

As Sherlock was loaded into the back, John wrapped his arms around the landlady’s shoulders as she cried softly. He whispered reassuring things into her hair.

Right before they closed both doors, John stepped forward and demanded he go along.

“The back of the ambulance is for family only, sir.”

“I am a bloody doctor, and I refuse to let my friend wake up to a bunch of strangers.” The man weighed his options and decided that it would be better to let the doctor ride with them if it meant avoiding a fight.

John gave the landlady a quick squeeze goodbye and jumped into the back, immediately grabbing onto Sherlock’s sweaty, trembling hand.


	5. Scum and Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's lives converge at the hospital.

John traced Sherlock’s jawline. The detective sighed into his firm hand. His body felt like it was hovering over clouds, just barely being touched by wispy tendrils. Sherlock memorized every indent and callous on John’s hand: the very spot where the handle of his gun presses; the steadiness of his trigger finger; the rough patches of scarred flesh.

“You’re such a clever man, Sherlock Holmes,” John murmured in his ear, tongue flicking out to lick his lips as it does when he’s waiting for a response. Sherlock opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. His words caught in his sandpaper rough throat. Hurt by Sherlock’s silence, John backed away. Sherlock craned his neck to look at the other man, but he was beyond his sights. The warmth that his hand left on Sherlock’s face dissipated.

“For a brilliant man, you sure are a pathetic piece of shit.” Tears began to well up in Sherlock’s eyes. The clouds underneath him turned hot and rose around him, threatening to smother him. He wanted to ask John why he was being so cruel, but his throat hurt so much he couldn’t even swallow.

Sherlock reached out to him with a quivering hand. John shoved it away from him. “Look at you. You are just a bloody addict. I don’t even know you. I am a _doctor_ ,” John spat. “I am above and beyond you.”

Burning tears ran freely down Sherlock’s face. Bile singed the lining of his insides. Sherlock’s stomach lurched.

Vomit splattered onto the hospital floor. John jumped for one of the spare bedpans under the bed. He held it up toward Sherlock’s quaking body, rubbing circles into the back of his clammy neck. Sherlock let his head loll forward. John put down the bedpan and gently lifted his head, easing him back against the bed by the shoulders. Sherlock eyed him intently.

“Would you like some ice chips,” John asked nervously. “You must be thirsty.” Sherlock made no movement.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, little brother.” Both Sherlock and John turned to look at the polished man in the suit while he leaned on his umbrella. He entered the room, ignoring the glare from Sherlock and the curious eyes from John.

“Hello, John-”

“I know who you are. You’re the army doctor that lives across from Sherlock. Your little public displays of affection hardly go unnoticed.”

John frowned hard in both embarrassment and anger. “And who are you, might I ask?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” he said sternly like John should have known. “I am the addict’s older brother.”

Sherlock growled through tight lips. John hurried to hand him the cup of ice chips that the nurse had just recently brought before Sherlock decided to make a mess of the floor. Sherlock greedily swallowed down the entire cup. John had left the room to alert the nurse of Sherlock’s consciousness.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock croaked. He stuck his tongue into the cup, helplessly lapping at the little droplets clinging to the Styrofoam.

“I came to see how you were doing.”

“I’m doing splendidly.”

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows and put heavy emphasis on his eye roll. “I can see that.”

“Why the hell have you been spying on us?”

“Little brother,” he began just as John and the nurse came back with another cup of ice and towels. “It isn’t spying if you’ve both got the windows open while you hand yourselves.” The nurse paused a moment before turning back to the floor with quickened movements. John’s ears burned.

“Imagine what the press would do to you if this got out. Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective and Public Masturbator.”

Sherlock jerked forward. “Don’t you bring my work into this, and you know exactly what I think of the press.”

The nurse popped up. “Sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave if you keep aggravating the patient.” She quickly checked the IVs and monitors before leaving the room again with a quick eye narrowing toward Mycroft. The older Holmes pursed his lips and adjusted himself on his umbrella.

“What is a consulting detective?” Sherlock leaned back in his bed with a pained groan.

“I observe everything. From what I observe, I deduce everything. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth. When the police are out of their depth, which is almost always, they contact me.” John’s eyes widened. It sounded so absurd, but he could see the seriousness in Sherlock’s eyes and the way he so easily spouted out what he did was convincing enough.

“I haven’t heard of anything like that before,” John whispered in awe.

“I’m the world’s only. I made it up.”

John chuckled. “But the police don’t consult amateurs.”

Sherlock’s brow smoothed out, a smirk playing at his lips. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock repeated himself. “How- how could you-”

“Your tan line doesn’t go past your wrists, suggesting that you’ve been out in the sun for long periods of time but with considerable sleeves. I noticed when you held the pan up to me. The way you stand is poised by military standards. You work at St. Bart’s and introduce yourself as “Doctor,” so you’re obviously a military doctor. So which is it: Afghanistan or Iraq?” Mycroft rolled his eyes once more. His brother the show off.

John stood there with his mouth agape. “Afghanistan,” he stuttered. “That-” Sherlock awaited the usual insults like “freak,” but they never came.

“That was amazing.” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow.

Sherlock was taken aback. “Really?”

“Truly.”

Comfortable silence passed through them. Mycroft, of course, was the one to break it.

“You’re going back in. I thought I might surprise you.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed. “I _refuse_ to return. I am not an addict. I do not need your help, _brother_ _dear_.”

“Your actions seem to suggest otherwise.”

“If you admit me again, I will just insult the staff, and you will be forced to deal with finding another center.”

“Stop acting like a petulant child, Sherlock. You’re going into rehabilitation.”

“I think not.”

“I will watch him.”

Sherlock and Mycroft turned to John. The doctor couldn’t even believe what he said, but he said it, so he might as well go through with it.

“When I went into your flat, I noticed you had an empty bedroom upstairs,” he stated matter-of-factly. Mycroft was silent as he considered this.

Sherlock went with it. “John is a doctor after all.”

Mycroft looked between them, taking in the ridiculousness of his situation. The broken soldier and the drug addict. It was like a bad Tuesday night sitcom.

“You do know what that kind of responsibility entails, Doctor Watson, correct?” John nodded. Mycroft huffed loudly. “Fine then, but do keep in mind that I have constant vigilance when it comes to the life of Sherlock Holmes.”

“And I will allow you to mother-hen your brother as you like.” Sherlock bit back a smile. Mycroft frowned. He was already regretting his decision to let the doctor live with Sherlock.

“Very well. I will gather his release papers.”

The two were left alone, accompanied by the even beeps of Sherlock’s heart monitor. The detective picked up his cup of ice and swallowed some chips to ease the constant scratch in the back of his throat.

“I,” John began awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was worried.”

Sherlock replaced the cup back on the side table and sat up a bit.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m fine.”

John bit his lower lip. “Back at your flat, I mean. The sight of you,” he stopped and swallowed. The last thing he needed was to choke up in front of the man who could read him like a billboard. “I was worried for you.”

“Oh,” was all Sherlock could muster. John looked at his shoes. Sherlock looked at the IV in his hand for a moment before speaking again.

“How do you feel about the violin?”


	6. Offensive in Every Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock begin anew in 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I haven't gone through and proofread this chapter, so please do not hesitate to comment on any discrepancies with the previous chapters and misspellings, and all that jazz.  
> Thanks again for putting up with my slow chapter additions. I hope you like this one!
> 
> Any comments are taken into consideration with care and love. :)

Despite what Sherlock’s doctor had said, he was still released from hospital. Sherlock hailed a cab; John eased him in and slid in after. The detective certainly looked like he should have stayed in the hospital bed- gaunt and pale, but his eyes betrayed the rest of his body.

John couldn’t help but stare at those brilliantly sharp blue eyes. They were glacial in color, but as Sherlock turned his gaze toward the good doctor, John swore he only saw warmth. Their hands hovered close to each other on the seat. The cabbie glanced in the rear-view mirror to only see the two men staring intensely at one another. The turned back to the road and muttered “freaks” to himself.

The cab slowed to a stop outside of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock let himself out against John’s request. Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she crowed, throwing her arms around the slender man. His head swirled in fog and sickness when she moved away. John noticed Sherlock swaying unsteadily and wrapped his arms around his ribs firmly.

“Oh, dear, you’re in such bad shape, Sherlock. How about I make you a cuppa? Maybe it will settle you.”

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed with several swallows. For a second, he looked like he was going to speak, but threw up nothing by bile on the sidewalk. Mrs. Hudson yelped. John removed Sherlock’s blue scarf and ran his hand through his sweat soaked curls. Sherlock gingerly wiped his mouth with his thumb and pressed himself into John’s side.

How surprisingly soothing John was against his skin- firm and delicate all the same. As they cautiously ascended the stairs to the flat, Mrs. Hudson discussed with John how several men had come through that morning with boxes of clothing and knickknacks.

“I figured they were more cases for Sherlock.”

Once inside, John removed Sherlock’s woolen coat and hung it up on the hook. The other man proceeded to lay on the couch in the fetal position.

“You’ll like it here,” Mrs. Hudson whispered quickly as he sat on the armrest, massaging Sherlock’s head. John looked up at her to see a wide grin stretching from ear to ear. “Your room is upstairs, but of course, it could always be just for storage.”

John blushed hotly. She was a smart woman. Soft snores erupted from the body on the couch. She leaned in.

“I’ll bring up dinner later,” and then she left John and Sherlock alone.

Sherlock shot up into the sitting position as soon as he was certain the landlady was gone. John had folded his hands over his lap awkwardly, unsure of what to do with his hands now that they weren’t in those unruly curls.

“I thought she would never shut up.”

“I’m sure she means well,” John smiled. Sherlock threw a look at him and stood. John quickly grabbed his elbow before he could fall over. He yanked it back with a huff.

John didn’t find himself to be even remotely insulted. “So cocaine is a bit not good,” he started.

“So is public indecency, but you don’t seem adverse to it.”

John frowned. “I’m not the topic at hand here, Sherlock.” Tingles ran up John’s spine at the name that wrapped around his tongue. Sherlock liked the way John drawled it out.

He pushed it away and crossed his arms. John spoke again. “You aren’t going to be doing any of that while I am here. You know that, right?”

“Obviously.” There was a hint of disappointment in his voice.

John stared at the detective.

Sherlock Holmes was beautiful in every sense of the word. John’s chest swelled with heat when he gazed on that face. He could tell the man was brilliant. He gave him a taste back at the hospital, but John could see it in the man’s stare and the way he scrutinized everything. There was an obvious clarity to him, one that John both admired and feared. He would hate to be the subject of those eyes.

John stood and asked about tea. Sherlock shrugged. _Okay, I’ll just look for it myself then._ He went into the kitchen and found the tea and two reasonably clean cups. He set water to boil.

“I can be extremely abrasive.” John looked back to see Sherlock leaning heavily against the doorway into the kitchen.

“I’ve figured that.” Sherlock frowned a bit. “I mean, judging from how and what you have said to your brother and the landlady-”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock corrected.

“I just pieced together that you’re mostly likely offensive in almost every way.”

“Almost?”

John’s cheeks pinked. “You’re a gorgeous thing to look at.” Sherlock couldn’t hide the color from his face either as he lowered his head. John busied himself with making the tea: a splash of milk (grimacing at the state of the refrigerator) in Sherlock’s while keeping his own black.

He handed it to Sherlock, brushing the other man’s hands with his own. “You look like you take yours with milk.”

The corner of Sherlock’s lip quirked up. “You’re not as ordinary as you look.”

John rolled his eyes and took a sip of his. “Thanks,” he chuckled sarcastically. He watched as Sherlock’s hand quaked when he brought the cup to his lips.

Plenty of thoughts crossed John’s mind, but only one stood out in that instant. He put down his cup on the table riddled with lab equipment and approached the consulting detective. Sherlock cupped his drink with two hands. Despite their significant height difference, Sherlock gazed straight into John’s blue eyes. John held himself up well.

The doctor leaned in. “I have dreamt about being this close to you,” he sighed like if him being in 221B was a dream he was about to awake from.

“And now you’re here,” Sherlock answered.

John rose to the balls of his feet just a bit and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. They both held still, mouths closed and hearts beating fast.

Sherlock’s cup fell to the floor.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pressing his palms in between his shoulder blades. Sherlock closed the gap and leaned into John. Their bodies melted together and their mouths fell open with tongues lapping at the inside of each other’s.

Sherlock was jittery and quivering all morning, but in this moment, he felt stilled. The man was a live wire, but John grounded him, insulated him with warmth and firm grips. John was sturdy bodily and strong mentally- a soldier through and through. It was an odd feeling that both men shared. John missed excitement, and since he had moved in across the street, seeing Sherlock was a bit of a rush every time. The detective was wild and odd in physicality and intellectuality, and John was finally able to feel all of it under his fingertips. He practically buzzed under his palms. Electricity coursed through this man’s veins.

They kissed slowly, hands splayed over their backs and holding one another tightly. After a while, however, Sherlock couldn’t catch his breath and sagged a little under John’s hands. The blond man held him closer and whispered to walk to the couch. Sherlock turned to John’s side so they could walk appropriately. Sherlock sat down roughly. The cocaine was stripped so suddenly from his body the previous night after being heavily ravaged, and left him unsound. He pressed his cheek into the cooler couch fabric. John carded Sherlock’s hair with his fingers.

“I hope you don’t plan to do any consulting for the next couple of days. You need to fully recuperate.” Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to settle his swirling stomach. John thought that he had fallen asleep when he finally answered with a shake of his head.

“You have to heal, Sherlock.” John hoped that it would get through to him, because it was true. Sherlock had suffered from an overdose, and his body was wrecked.

“I will consult when Lestrade notifies me regardless of my own personal health. Besides, this is just a vessel.” His hand motioned to his curled up body lazily.

John smirked and shook his head. “You’re a bloody psychopath.”

Sherlock turned to the other side and looked up at John through his long dark lashes.

“I am not a psychopath, John. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.”


	7. Cigarette Daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity and crime-solving begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finding myself more distracted as of late, so to help me out, if there is anything wrong in this chapter, please do not hesitate to let me know. Thanks :)

Soft smoky tendrils swirled around Sherlock’s head. The slight burn in the back of his throat was comforting. He closed his eyes and held the cigarette with the corner of his lips.

A door swung open after he climbed the next flight of stairs. It was a new door, painted yellow and stood out from the natural dark cherry wood accents of the hall. Sherlock stepped into the warmly lit room. The door closed softly behind him. In the middle of the room stood only a group of five candles organized from shortest to tallest. There was nothing else to see in the room- its corners engulfed in shadows. Sherlock began to panic quietly. He was never without his sight. What could he do without being able to see the obvious truth around him?

Arms wrapped around his body and two hands pressed their palms to his chest. He tensed up against them. A familiar body pressed into his back. Relief washed over him. Lips grazed his neck.

“I want to see you out of this coat.”

Sherlock obeyed and let the coat slide from his shoulders. It was a constant heavy pressure that he loved, but now, he was left bare to the outside. He shuddered. The voice and hands soothed him. A hand reached back and massaged his neck from right under his hairline to the bend where his shoulders met. His skin turned into gooseflesh. The other hand unbuttoned and removed Sherlock’s jacket. Sherlock leaned his head back, feeling the rough of stubble against his own cheek. Lips kissed his jaw.

“You’re the most brilliant thing I’ve seen, Sherlock.”

“You haven’t seen me deduce anything or anyone else.”

John smiled against his skin. Sherlock melted a little. “I don’t have to see that to know that you are.”

Sherlock turned his head to meet John’s lips, warm and just slightly chapped. John traced the detective’s bottom lip with his tongue.

“Don’t be an idiot, John. You can’t possibly know that.” John moved away a little, only noses apart from Sherlock. They stared into each other’s eyes. _Normal_ people might’ve found this odd, but it was the best thing to do between them, breathing each other’s air and seeing their own reflections in the other man’s stare.

“But I can,” he purred, breath hot and smelling of tea and sugar. He pressed another soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips, cupping his face with both hands. Sherlock felt wrapped in cozy blanket. They separated once more and pressed their foreheads together.

“You’re everything I have dreamt about.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t fathom that a man- or _anyone_ for that matter- could want a man like Sherlock.

“You’re a dangerous game, and I want to play along with you.” John kissed his mouth closed, running his tongue across Sherlock’s. The world around the detective was spinning. His body was free falling into John’s kiss, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sherlock was snapped out of his mind palace when John snatched the cigarette out of his mouth. He pursed his lips into a hard line and frowned up at the smaller man.

“You aren’t going to be smoking either.”

Sherlock pressed his hands together and placed them under his chin. “The nicotine helps me think.”

John rolled his eyes and put it out in his already cold tea. “I’ll get you patches.” He walked into the kitchen and pulled out the breakfast that Mrs. Hudson had brought them. John began to reheat the other plate when Sherlock said he wasn’t hungry.

“You’re going to eat.”

“I don’t eat when I am on a case.”

“You’re not on a case though.”

“I will be soon enough. There has been a string of suicides.”

John pulled out Sherlock’s plate after heating it. He took both of them into the sitting room and put the plates on the coffee table before sitting in between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock adjusted himself so that he could curl his right leg behind John’s back and let the other hang off the edge.

“Eat,” John commanded. Sherlock frowned but gave in and sat up. “What makes a “string of suicides” any different from other suicides,” John asked in between bites of bacon.

“These were unexpected, John. This is blatant murder.” He chewed his eggs before continuing. “Lestrade held a press release today. I’ve texted him several times. I am just awaiting his call.”

John shoveled in the rest of his food, glad to have a home cooked meal after eating takeaway for so long. He licked his lips clean and watched Sherlock prod at his half-eaten meal. John sighed loudly.

“Will you eat after your case?”

“Indubitably,” he handed John his plate. John took them into the kitchen, rubbing his temples at Sherlock’s stubbornness and at the sight of the table, which he refused to clean because of the unknown substances Sherlock had about it. “You haven’t noticed yet, have you?” Sherlock asked from the other room.

John furrowed his brow. “Noticed what?”

“You’re not using that infernal cane. Your limp's psychosomatic as explained by your therapist.” John stopped and looked down at his leg. _I’ll be damned. The bloody git._ He shook his head and turned back.

“You look better today,” John smiled when he sat in his chair, propped up by the Union Jack pillow. He just wanted to get off the topic of his leg. Sherlock had his elbows on his knees and his hands in those beautiful curls. He peeked at John through his pale fingers.

He wanted to disappear. Fade away into a husk of flesh, only supported by the hot harmony of cocaine searing his veins. Sherlock craved nothingness. He wanted to not be here, trapped in his own vessel, where the outside world bristled beneath the surface of his skin like a nuclear reactor, a constant bother.

John stood and walked over to Sherlock. The detective just looked back down at the carpeted floor. John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and crouched next to him. He nuzzled his hands with his nose and removed his hands to caress his shoulders. Sherlock uncovered his face and met John’s face.

“Look, I know this must be incredibly odd: two men living together only after one suffers from cocaine overdose and the other has been invalided home from the battlefield and wanking to each other in front of their windows.” John chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all. “But I think we can do this-” He waved his around. “This whole domestic business.”

Sherlock smirked slightly. “I am a ridiculous man.”

“As you should be,” John laughed. “But I am equal parts ridiculous.”

John was speaking the truth. It was an odd feeling. He only felt better when Sherlock was around, especially now that he could keep a close eye on the man. Sherlock, on the other hand, found it hard to believe that John was going to be here for him through and through. No one ever stayed with Sherlock. No one ever considered how Sherlock might feel when they called him a “machine” or a “freak” or an “addict.” It was weird to see another human other than Mrs. Hudson in his flat, especially one so boldly genuine. He had gotten used to being alone, and frequently enjoyed it. He had no friends or anyone of the sort to bond with or whatever. He didn’t mind it really.

 _Alone is what protects me_ , Sherlock thought to himself.

John watched as Sherlock’s thoughts flitted across his distant eyes. Footsteps bounded up the stairs heavily. The Detective Inspector from outside St. Bart’s burst in and froze. Sherlock whipped his head toward him excitedly.

“There’s another.”

Lestrade nodded. “This one’s different. They’ve left a note.”

“Text me the address. I’ll follow in a cab.” Lestrade agreed and left the flat in a flurry.

Sherlock left the couch and grabbed his coat and threw it on, tying his scarf on hurriedly. He left a very confused John in the flat. Sherlock was almost down the stairs when he stopped, considered something, and went back up.

“You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor.” Sherlock said in the doorway.

John straightened his back. “Yes.”

“Any good?”

“Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries then- violent deaths.”

“Well, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

“Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

“Wanna see some more?”

“Oh god yes.”


	8. Always Where I Needed to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John head back to Baker Street after the cabbie incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being such a prat and not writing another chapter fast enough, but I had two exams to study for this week. Anyways, I had originally planned for this to be the final chapter, but it's currently 3 in the morning, and I am just too tired to find the mental capacity to write this out. I hope this chapter was worth the wait. There will be smut to come.... :) I will try to get it all together in the afternoon after Calculus tutorials.  
> Again, comments are ALWAYS appreciated, and if there is anything misspelled or otherwise, do not hesitate to let me know.

The shot rang through John’s ears as he ducked out of Roland-Kerr College. He had to get away fast enough so it didn’t seem like it was him who pulled the trigger at the cabbie. The image of Sherlock’s fingers, quaking around the pill, was burned in his mind as NSY gathered around the front. John slid off to the side as officers escorted Sherlock to the ambulance.

Sherlock had a blanket draped over his shoulders. He frowned and tried to shrug it off when the DI came over.

“Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me.

“Yeah, it’s for shock.”

“I’m not in shock.”

“Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs,” he grins as Sherlock rolls his eyes before continuing.

“So, the shooter- no sign?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Cleared off before we got ’ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but…” He shrugged. “Got nothing to go on.”

Sherlock looked at him pointedly. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes this time. “Okay, gimme.”

Sherlock stood. “The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman- a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service.” As he’s talking, he turns his head to look around the area and sees John standing some distance away behind the police tape.

“And nerves of steel...” He trailed off. John looked back at him innocently before turning. The realization hit Sherlock. Lestrade followed Sherlock’s gaze, but he turned back to the DI before he could question anything.

“Actually, do you know what? Ignore me.”

Lestrade blinked once, taken aback. “Sorry?”

“Ignore all of that. It’s just the, er, the shock talking.” He started to make his way toward John.

“Where’re you going?”

“I just need to talk about the-the rent,” Sherlock lied.

“But I’ve still got questions for you.”

Sherlock whipped back around in irritation. “Oh, what now? I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!” He brandished the blanket, waving the sides about.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade frowned.

“And I just caught you a serial killer ... more or less.” Lestrade eyed him thoughtfully for a moment.

“Okay. We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

Lestrade smiled as Sherlock walked away. Taking the blanket from around his shoulders, Sherlock bundled it up as he approached John, standing at the side of a police car. He tossed the blanket through the open window of the car and ducked under the police tape.

“Um, Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful.” John muttered.

“Good shot,” Sherlock said quietly to his flatmate.

John tried to look innocent, but both of them knew otherwise. “Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.”

“Well, you’d know,” Sherlock smirked. John gazed up at him, still trying unsuccessfully to not look guilty.

“Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.” John cleared his throat and glanced around nervously. A pang of worry struck Sherlock.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course I’m all right.”

“Well, you have just killed a man.”

“Yes, I...” He trailed off as Sherlock looked at him intently.

“That’s true, innit,” he smiled. Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off him. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.” Satisfied with John’s answers, Sherlock finally nodded in agreement, still watching him from the corner of his eye.

“No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?”

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.” Sherlock chuckled, and then turned to lead them away as he speaks.

“That’s true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!” John giggled. Sherlock smiled. The doctor seemed ten years younger, lamplights glinting off his eyes.

“Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it!”

“You’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame me.”

“Keep your voice down!” As the walk past Sargent Donovan, John said awkwardly, “Sorry – it’s just, um, nerves, I think.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock said at her. John cleared his throat again as they walked away from Donovan.

“You were gonna take that damned pill, weren’t you?” Sherlock turned back to him, heart-shaped lips scowling again.

“Course I wasn’t. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

John saw through his bullshit. “No you didn’t. It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot.” Sherlock smiled. It had been so long since he’s had someone understand the madness behind his actions, even if John wasn’t up to his own intellectual standards, he was still mighty clever. Sherlock noticed that he was still smiling to himself and immediately shoved his smile down.

“Dinner?”

“Starving.”

During the entirety of dinner, their eyes never wavered from each other’s except to look down at their own food. They sat across from one another, feet rubbing against each other accidently. After a while though, those “accidental” touches were becoming blatant caresses, sometimes trailing up their pant legs.

John smiled in pleasant surprise to see that Sherlock had cleaned his plate before he had even gotten midway. Sherlock eyed him hungrily.

“Want some of mine,” John asked shyly. Sherlock hesitated before nodding. For a moment, they stared in weird silence. Sherlock half expected John to slide his plate over, but what he definitely was _not_ expecting was John to offer his fork, hunk of sesame chicken and rice on it. Sherlock blinked. John raised his eyebrows.

The detective leaned in and let John feed him. John was hoping that maybe watching Sherlock eat would distract him from the heat pooling in his groin caused by Sherlock’s soft strokes on his leg, but when he saw those beautiful bow lips wrap around his fork, he swallowed thickly, shoving away his perverse thoughts of those same lips wrapping around other parts of his body. Sherlock chewed deliberately slow. He noticed John’s pupils dilate as he watched him. After he swallowed, John already had another mouthful ready for him.

Sherlock took the fork into his mouth and slid off slowly. He never let John out of his sight. The doctor swallowed hard. Sherlock took it down and licked his lips slowly with an open mouth. John dropped the fork and scared himself back to reality when it _clanked_ hard on the plate.

“I’m done if you are,” Sherlock murmured, already shrugging on his coat. John jumped out of his chair and tried to put on his jacket with trembling hands. Sherlock stood behind him, pressing his hips into John’s back.

“Allow me,” he purred, taking the jacket from the older man and holding it out for his arms. He eased it on and rested his hands on John’s shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles into the back of his neck. John melted a little but remembered that they were still standing in a restaurant and cleared his throat before walking out the door, Sherlock close behind him.

On the cab ride to Baker Street, Sherlock and John had their hands on each other’s thighs- just on top, resting innocently. Sherlock on the other hand, could not resist sliding his onto John’s inner thigh, earning a shudder from the doctor and a hitch in his breathing. John furrowed his brow. He was trying his very best to keep from blushing, but he felt the tips of his ears getting hot and his trousers getting tight.

John paid the cabbie as Sherlock unlocked the door to 221B. They went upstairs together. John offered the other tea.

“I would love some.”

John took to the kitchen while Sherlock occupied the couch. He had removed his woolen coat and scarf and draped his jacket over the arm of the couch. He leaned back and rested his head. John tinkered in the kitchen, setting the water to boil while he gathered the mugs. After several moments, he brought over their tea and sat next to Sherlock.

The detective took his cup gratefully and held the rim to his lips, eyes closed. John watched him. He looked so calm and certainly much better than previous. He could hardly tell that the man suffered from an overdose on cocaine. Sherlock opened his eyes and narrowed them at John.

“What?”

John shook his head, taking a sip of his tea with a small smile playing on his lips. “It’s just you look so much better. So healthy,” he sighed. Sherlock lifted his chin. Of course he was. He was always fine.

They stared at each other in comfortable silence. John started to feel squirmy under Sherlock’s eyes, so he swallowed down the rest of his tea, stood, and went back into the kitchen to place it in the sink.

John was at the counter when a pair of hands encircled his torso, palms lying flat against the planes of his chest. Sherlock pressed into his back and nuzzled his shoulder. John bared his neck for the taller man. Sherlock took his offering and trailed his lips over John’s skin, leaving slight pecks along the way. John braced himself on the counter when Sherlock spoke into his ear, velvety baritone vibrating through his body.

“Can we finally do this properly,” he sighed. John answered by turning his head and meeting Sherlock’s soft lips. Their kisses were light and unhurried. Sherlock’s mouth was warm from the tea. John twisted his body to press his chest into the taller man, maneuvering his knee in between his legs. Sherlock opened his body to him.

John slid his tongue into Sherlock’s parted lips and was glad that Sherlock had the same idea. Their tongues danced together, sugar and tea sweetening their mouths. Sherlock pressed forward. John’s lower back pushed against the edge of the counter. He could feel Sherlock’s hardening erection against his hip. All Sherlock could hear was the sound of John’s breathing mixed with his own. He could feel it against his face every now and then when the good doctor remembered to breathe.

There was only so much he could take of this. John leaned away with an unexpected groan and kissed under Sherlock’s jaw. The other man’s knees buckled a tad, but John held onto him tight, hands roaming his narrow back.

Sherlock lifted his hands to cup John’s tanned face. Oh how beautiful he was- the man that anchored him. Every line, furrow, freckle, and pore was perfect under Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze. Those awful jumpers made him look soft and meek when he obviously knew otherwise. Of course, Sherlock could deduce him. John wasn’t a difficult man; he wore his life story like he did those jumpers. What made him so unordinary- even by Sherlock’s standards- was John’s natural ability to deceive everyone with his appearance. A middle-aged ex-army doctor with a proclivity for unassuming clothing was hardly worth a second glance, but underneath all of that was a man who craved excitement, adrenaline. He could shoot a man with unwavering quickness and steady hands. He was solid, earthy, and real. John was something to hold onto when Sherlock disappeared into the confines of his own mind.

Sherlock had met the man that was his polar opposite in almost every sense, but just as equally mad as the detective himself. He seemed so ordinary; the average man to everyone else, but to Sherlock, John was everything he wasn’t.

Sherlock was the head. John was the heart.

“What are you thinking about,” John breathed into Sherlock’s unmoving mouth.

Sherlock hadn’t realized that he had frozen, but now, he pressed his forehead to John’s and gave him a simple smile.

“You,”


	9. Bound for the Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get hella steamy

Sherlock and John stumbled into the detective’s room. There were some files scattered across the bed, but Sherlock threw them down. John kissed him open-mouthed down on the bed. Sherlock was putty underneath him. Both of them were still clothed, taking everything painfully slow.

John had fantasized about this since he first laid eyes on the man, but he never imagined how the sharp angles of Sherlock’s hips would feel under his fingers; the warm taste of his mouth; those elegant violinist’s fingers caressing his face. It was sensory overload. Sherlock raised his hips into John’s. The doctor ground down against him and gripped Sherlock’s wrists. He massaged circles into them as he stretched them over his head. Sherlock’s hands tangled in the dark sheets as John’s fingers made easy work of the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. John let it fall open to reveal the pale expanse of Sherlock’s torso. John held his gasp. Sherlock lifted himself on his elbows and pressed a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth.

“You’re so gorgeous, Sherlock,” John groaned against Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock hummed with satisfaction when John latched himself onto Sherlock’s neck, sucking a dark bruise for everyone to see. John sucked his way down Sherlock’s neck, his hands bunching in the sheets. He felt light-headed from the intensity of his arousal; his amplified senses aching for contact with every dip and angle of Sherlock’s body, torn between his need to taste Sherlock and feel him wholly. Sherlock’s hands slid up the back of his neck into his hair, one thumb absently massaging the soft skin behind his ear while his other fingers curled into the short blond strands. John shuddered at the touch, tasting the silkiness of his skin as his mouth opened against one of Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock made a soft, yearning sound at the contact, fingers tightening in John’s hair. His breath came out quick and hot. He closed his mouth around Sherlock’s nipple and sucked. Sherlock let out a cry, the ends of his fingernails digging into John’s scalp. Tingles ran down John’s spine; he slid his hands down Sherlock’s sides, counting each indentation between his ribs. He pulled away from Sherlock’s nipple and kissed a line down past his belly button. Sherlock’s skin was flushed pink and his breathing was ragged. John glanced up at his face.

Sherlock had his eyes squeezed shut. His brain couldn’t process everything he was feeling; every sensation blurring into a haze of pleasure. Flames covered his skin. He bucked up when John kissed his skin right above the waist of his trousers. John quickly undid his belt and slid off his trousers, Sherlock lifting his hips. John whipped them off and pressed his hands into the dip of Sherlock’s pelvis. The head of his cock was already glistening with pre-come. John kissed the crease between his thigh and hip. Sherlock was trying to catch his breath when John swallowed him down to the base, nose nestled in the soft thatch of dark hair. Sherlock arched off the bed with a sudden gasp. John eased him with his hands back down on the mattress.

John flattened his tongue on the underside of Sherlock as he slid back up. He massaged the head with his lips. Sherlock groaned, holding onto the back of John’s head like his life depended on it.

“John,” he moaned. John hummed and the vibrations ripped through the detective’s body. He trembled under John’s palms. “John,” Sherlock panted. “I can’t- I won’t… much longer…John…”

The doctor smiled cutely as he swallowed Sherlock completely one more time before offering his fingers to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock took them, closing his eyes as he did so, before sucking the whole of two fingers into his mouth. John made a sound like Sherlock had kicked him in the gut. Sherlock looked pointedly at John when he came off Sherlock’s cock with a dramatic _pop_ as he pulled the fingers slowly out of his mouth and then ran his tongue up the inside of each one, his eyelashes lowering to half-mast.

John made another half-strangled sound and took his fingers back. He bent forward and kissed Sherlock softly before turning back to gently stroke Sherlock’s arse cheeks with his slicked hand.

“I want to see you.”

John paused and looked back at Sherlock. The detective looked him up and down before giving a small nod.

John leaned back and removed his jumper, tossing it to the floor. Sherlock sat up and crawled forward, covering John’s hands with his own when they got to the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock kissed John’s throat, slipping the buttons out one by one. Sherlock’s forehead was back against his own, his breath hot and desperate against John’s face. The shirt fell from John’s shoulders. Sherlock faced John’s torso.

He was a sight to see. Hard and tanned from his many years in the military, but soft around the middle from his injury and age, John was brilliant. Sherlock pressed his hands to John’s chest, splaying his fingers to touch as much skin as possible. John watched Sherlock’s eyes scan his body like a computer. Sherlock leaned in and kissed the scar on his shoulder. John stiffened against him. No one had ever touched him there. This was actually the first time he had his shirt off in years, especially with a partner. Sherlock kissed up his shoulder and back across his neck. He nibbled John’s jaw, sucking a red mark onto his skin. There would be a lovely bruise there in the morning. The thought of having everyone see it sent a bolt of excitement straight to Sherlock’s chest. John reached back down and pressed the pads of his fingers between Sherlock’s arse cheeks.

Sherlock gasped when John brushed his body’s entrance, arching himself into John. The other man bent again and nipped at the ticklish buds on Sherlock’s chest. Laughter ripped from Sherlock’s throat as he gripped John’s shoulders and rolled away, taking them both to the hard floor. Elbows bumped the floor, sure to bruise by the morning. John’s back pressed roughly into the floor as Sherlock straddled his hips.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but the small smile on John’s face stopped him. He clamped his mouth shut, and lifted his chin, reverting back to his haughty nature. John took notice.

“Aw, what,” John chuckled.

“You’re smiling. What is so amusing?”

“You, me,” he laughed harder. “Us. We just captured a killer-”

“Well,”

“You know what I mean. I just moved in, and look at us. We just met!” Sherlock’s bright eyes shone against the mess of dark curls that fell over his brow. He leaned down and pressed closed lips to John’s.

“You’re going to be a prat, I already know, but look at you,” John said against the detective. “You’re amazing.”

Sherlock tried to hide his coloring face, but John reached up and cupped his jaw. “I want to see and feel all of you.”

And with that, Sherlock dove down again and took John’s mouth into his. He pressed his erection into John’s, and a deep moan vibrated out of John and in between Sherlock’s lips. The feel of it struck him right in his center. Sherlock pried himself away and trailed his swollen lips down John’s neck and nipped at his collarbone. John’s hips jerked up into Sherlock’s. His body searched for the sweet spot against the detective. Sherlock held John down with delicate hands before sliding down further. He inhaled the scent of sweat and soap. He laid kisses against the soft skin stretching over his hips. John’s breathing was ragged in anticipation.

Sherlock kissed his way up to the tip of John’s cock, gently caressing his lower lip below the head. He settled a wet kiss to the crown before wrapping his firm lips around the shorter man. Sherlock slipped his tongue in the slit. John lifted himself on his elbows to admire the mop of black curls that bobbed up and down with every slide of Sherlock’s tongue. The other man’s smart mouth was bringing John to the brink.

“Sherlock,” John barely made out. “I’m . . . so-” Sherlock swallowed him whole, relaxing his throat so he wouldn’t gag so hard. The slick heat of Sherlock’s throat threw John over. His vision went white with the sheer force of his orgasm as he spilled himself down the detective’s throat. Sherlock swallowed what he could before he pulled off to gasp.

Sherlock smiled darkly and licked off the last pearly bead that had accumulated on John’s prick. John scrambled to his knees despite feeling dizzy and took Sherlock’s mouth. He licked his way in and wrapped a firm hand around Sherlock’s cock. He dipped his thumb into the slit and rubbed the wetness around softly. Sherlock moaned in John’s mouth, desperate and hazy. John tasted himself on Sherlock’s tongue as he pumped Sherlock slowly. The detective was unfocused with his kisses. The only thing he could feel was John’s hot skin against his; the way John’s lips were strong while his were lazy. His shallow breathing faded away as he grew closer to that dangerous peak. It had been a long while since another person had been trusted enough to interact with him at this level. He hadn’t needed to use his “charm” on the good doctor.

John had stopped stroking him and was staring hard at him again. “You think too much,” he smirked.

“It comes with the job.” Sherlock leaned into his lips again. It felt only right. After a moment, he frowned against the blond man’s mouth.

“I’m not going to change,” he began before John started to shake his head.

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

Sherlock dove for his mouth with increased vigor, biting at the other man’s lip and entangling his dexterous fingers in his short blond-grey hair. It only took a few seconds for John to start his hand up again. He eased Sherlock higher up the metaphorical mountain again before pumping fast enough to break Sherlock’s mouth away from his. Sherlock’s head was thrown back. Damp curls stuck to his forehead and the side of his face. His breathing was quick, and John would worry that he would hyperventilate if it wasn’t for how close the brunet was.

Swears mixed with his name as Sherlock panted and groaned, arms shaking under him. One last pull had the man below him forcing out a moan that sounded both pained and utterly blissed. Warm wetness spilled into the doctor’s palm as Sherlock shook under his body.  Sherlock dropped his body to the floor with a hard _thud_ , smile spread dumbly from cheek to cheek.

John leaned down to kiss his jaw and patted his thigh. “Let me get this hand cleaned. Just stay there.” Right when he moved to stand, Sherlock gripped his wrist tightly and pulled him close. He took John’s hand and licked a filthy stripe over his palm. John shuddered, but it was too soon for him to get hard again. He would just have to settle for the sight of Sherlock licking his hand clean.

“You are a filthy man, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock kissed the back of his hand and smiled up at him. “Only for my live-in doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know it's been an extremely long time since I last updated, and I am INCREDIBLY sorry for the long ass wait, but as many of you know, college gets in the way of happiness. Anyways, I hope this chapter was decent, and I've got one more for y'all that I'm hoping to write this weekend.  
> Again, many, many apologies for being a procrastinating asshat. Hope you enjoyed the filth. Let me know if there are any issues or misspellings or things along the lines. Comment here or hit me up on Tumblr.   
> TOODLES


	10. There Is Only You

Lestrade tried to ignore the obvious in front of him. It wasn’t very long since he’s known John, but Sherlock? He knew something had changed in his old friend. With every new deduction, Sherlock’s eyes would glitter with John’s praise. The touching was slight between them: shoulder nudges and grazing hands. The rest of Lestrade’s team exchanged expectant glances. They had noticed the change in the detective’s demeanor as soon as John Watson entered the picture. He was still a huge pain in the neck, but the insults he hurled at them had weakened, and were more annoying than hurtful.

As Sherlock straightened himself and put his magnifier away, John went forward and placed his hand at the small of his back.

“Brilliant,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear. Shivers ran up Sherlock’s spine and prickled his skin. Heat warmed his stomach.

“I can’t wait to have you back at the flat.”

Sherlock’s smile was wicked as he locked eyes with those of Scotland Yard and licked a wet stripe along John’s jaw with a final nip of his earlobe.

“You can have all of me,” Sherlock purred.

Greg had to clear his throat to get their attention once more. The scene in front of him sent a jolt straight to his crotch, making him yearn for the passion they had.

“If you two want to get out of here faster, can we go ahead and wrap this up?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be thick, Gavin. It was clearly the mistress judging by the ligature marks on the wrists. Mr. Dursley was an active participant in the BDSM community and got into something he wasn’t quite ready for. I wouldn’t be surprised if you found his mistress bawling her eyes out at his flat. You can call us in tomorrow once you make the arrest.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’ve got things to do. Come along, John.” Sherlock stalked off in a coat flapping huff. John shrugged and said his quick goodbye before jogging up next to Sherlock.

“Give me a warning next time, will ya? Can’t just expect me to run after you.”

Sherlock hailed a cab, pulling off his left glove, and as one arrived, slid his ungloved hand in the back of John’s jeans. His middle finger dipped into the cleft of John’s arse. John had to swallow hard to keep his erection under control. They slid into the back of the cab quietly.

On the drive back to Baker Street, John’s brow broke out in an anxious sweat. He couldn’t wait to feel more than just Sherlock’s hand on his skin. Sherlock was doing his best to keep his face aloof, but the excitement made him want to jump out his skin. Even his coat felt like too much. He loosened his scarf a bit to make room for the knot in his throat. Just because he didn’t have Sherlock’s massive intellect, John knew what arousal looked like, and Sherlock was falling prey to it.

In front of 221, Sherlock hurriedly threw some notes at the driver. John would have made a smart comment about him finally paying for a cab ride, but he was too busy whipping the door open. They were just about to sprint up the steps to their flat when Mrs. Hudson poked her head out her door.

“Oh, boys! How did your afternoon go? Solve any cases today? I’ve got some lovely pastries from that little bakery that you like, Sherl-”

“I am in a very big hurry, Mrs. Hudson, and I do not have time to listen to your ramblings.” Sherlock flew up the stairs without John.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Hudson. It’s been a long day.”

She smiled at John sweetly. “I can imagine,” she whispered with a wink. “I’ll save you some sweets, and if you’d like, I can bring them to you once you and Sherlock have had your _rest_.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

“JOHN!”

The doctor took that as a warning to get his arse up the stairs or he would have to spend the night alone with his hand. When he entered the sitting room, the sight of Sherlock standing in front of a fresh fire stark naked took his breath away. There was nothing more beautiful than seeing the mad detective in the flickering firelight.

“You’re beautiful, Sherlock,” John muttered, shedding his jacket and jumper. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to mash his lips together with John’s, letting his tongue slip in just so. In John’s head, his thoughts flew by at breakneck speed. _Sherlock is so brilliant. He could have anyone, and yet here he is with his flatmate-_

“John,” Sherlock whispered, breaking his train of thought.

“Mm,”

“Stop thinking. It doesn’t suit you. Makes you a poor performer.”

“It’s just-”

“No John. You don’t give yourself enough credit. You think I would bed a man that was imperfect? Just because your intellect does not even come close to mine,” John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock continued. “Does not mean that you are as perfect as they come. I could have anyone, John, but there is only you.” Sherlock pressed his forehead to John’s and whispered again.

“There is only you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I wanna extend my BIGGEST APOLOGIES FOR TAKING SO GODDAMN LONG TO FINISH THIS. I AM SO SO INCREDIBLY SORRY. Seriously. I've just been dealing with some major writer's block and my depression hasn't been kind. I know you're going read this and be like, "Yo, that's it?" and I'm sorry to say that yeah that's all I could squeeze out. SO SORRY again

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment if you'd like :) Thanks again for reading


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